


metamorphosis

by Neuron



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Aizen/Grimmjow, Minor Starrk/Grimmjow, More introspection than smut tbh, Slow Burn, Smut with an abundance of confusing feelings, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28358559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neuron/pseuds/Neuron
Summary: The desert is all Grimmjow has ever known. He’d survived its cold embrace and its relentless cruelty long before he remembered his own name. It raised him with unloving hands—taking and providing in equal simplicity—sharpened his claws and instincts; taught him to survive while surrounded by death.He roams it’s endless miles, consumes countless souls, feels himself growing smaller, compact and powerful, and yet the desert remains unchanged, unyielding, though all of it. The same pale sand beneath his paws and black sky stretching on overhead as he wanders and hunts and evolves.But even within such a vast place, words still travel and rumours spread, and there are whispers creeping on the wind of a man who casts a shadow larger and darker than a whole horde of Menos Grande.(Basically, a look at Grimmjow's history with a sprinkling of A/B/O because why not)
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	metamorphosis

**THE HOGYOKU**

*

The desert is all Grimmjow has ever known. He’d survived its cold embrace and its relentless cruelty long before he remembered his own name. It raised him with unloving hands—taking and providing in equal simplicity—sharpened his claws and instincts; taught him to survive while surrounded by death.

He roams it’s endless miles, consumes countless souls, feels himself growing smaller, compact and _powerful_ , and yet the desert remains unchanged, unyielding, though all of it. The same pale sand beneath his paws and black sky stretching on overhead as he wanders and hunts and evolves. 

But even within such a vast place, words still travel and rumours spread, and there are whispers creeping on the wind of a man who casts a shadow larger and darker than a whole horde of Menos Grande.

Grimmjow doesn't feel the intruders arrive, but he does recognizes the frightful, anguished shriek that tears across the sky, and without hesitation he launches into a sprint, sand kicking up behind him as he lunges past white and wilted trees and over desolate dunes.

Sometime in the future, when he’s sure to look back, he’ll wish he could remember what he was thinking about in the moment before the silence shattered. 

He tracks the reiatsu of his companions and finds them not too far from where he left them earlier. Rigid and overcome with fear, terror-struck eyes watching helplessly as three cloaked strangers surround one of their own. 

Edrad’s voice trembles as he stutters Grimmjow's name—the appearance of their leader doing little to alleviate his panic—and Grimmjow steadies his reiatsu, pulls it in tight so it clings to his form like a second skin, and prowls slowly closer towards the intruders and the dense crackle of unfamiliar reiatsu surrounding them.

A man with dark skin and darker hair tilts his head in Grimmjow's direction, one of his hands drifting to his waist. “Aizen-sama.”

The man beside him, the one looming over Grimmjow’s fallen companion, raises his chin a fraction, and in the second that follows, a hair-raising, tail-curling shudder ripples down Grimmjow’s spine and dread flutters into the hollow space where his gut should be.

His paw falters mid-step when the man turns, slowly, moonlight glinting off a pair of glasses perched across his nose, to reveal a rather plain face with soft brown eyes framed by wavy hair of the same colour; a stark contrast to the sinister presence hovering around him. 

What does catch Grimmjow’s attention, however, is the infamous black uniform beneath the cloak he wears and the Zanpakuto fastened at his waist.

 _Shinigami_.

“Won’t you come closer?”

A snarl rumbles in his chest.

The man—Aizen—only smiles, a small, amused thing curling at the corners of his lips, before he turns his attention back to Shawlong and holds his hand out over his crumpled form.

Pinched between his long fingers is something dark and round which Grimmjow barely gets a single glance at before it begins to glow.

There’s a short pause where the light builds and Shawlong’s face is illuminated for all to see his terrified expression and Grimmjow takes an apprehensive step forward, instinct, as well as concern for his own, urging him to strike while the man’s back is turned. 

But then, the air suddenly erupts and he’s blasted with a surge of reishi that forces him into a crouch, bracing against the wind lashing his armor, paws grinding into the sand for leverage. His eyes sting but he keeps them open, fixated on the pulse of raw power and crackling energy—billowing up and outwards in a chaotic spiral before it drops, tightening, compressing—and Shawlong, trapped at the centre of the vortex, disappears in a blinding white light, his harrowing shrieks engulfed in a roar of wind.

The final explosion comes with a sickening crunch, like bones splintering, and the resulting shockwave rumbles through the ground and throws a whirlwind of sand into the air before, all at once, the atmosphere falls calm and still and Grimmjow dares to raise his head.

Shawlong, as Grimmjow knows him, is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, kneeling in the sand surrounded by shards of shattered bone is another man, long limbed and naked with strands of thin black hair falling down his pale back. 

Grimmjow’s eyes narrow and--curiosity overwhelming his survival instinct--he takes a few more cautious steps closer, gaze never leaving the new figure.

"Shawlong…?"

The man looks up, shoulders shuddering and struggling for breath, and upon locking eyes, Grimmjow just knows that it’s him. 

“I can help you evolve,” Aizen says with the same unwavering smile and he gestures lazily over Shawlong's head where white bone wraps around his skull like some sort of distorted helmet—spiking off to the right and extending down to cover his left eye. "I can give you power." 

Grimmjow eyes him distrustfully. “In return for what?” he growls.

“You will join my army to bring down the Seireitei.”

That… isn’t the answer Grimmjow is expecting. For a moment, all he does is stare. His hesitation earns him another flicker of a smile and Aizen moves towards him, slow and graceful; the sand beneath his feet completely undisturbed. 

Grimmjow’s heart hammers as he draws closer. He’s not stubborn enough to ignore the obvious benefits to be gained in the offer—he can already feel an increase in strength in the reiatsu slowly stabilizing around Shawlong; something that shouldn’t have been possible after he gave up a piece of his soul to Grimmjow many years ago. 

If this is what he—a weak Aduchas who willingly halted his progression and allowed himself to be consumed—can achieve, then what does that mean for Grimmjow? The opportunity to gain power beyond that of a Vasto Lorde? To wage war against the Shinigami, the natural enemy of Hollows. 

But only in exchange for servitude to this man. 

“Why would I fight for someone who’s just admitted to being a traitor?”

The third Shinigami, the one with silver hair and a sly, fox-like grin, breaks his silence with a chuckle. "I think this one might need taming, Aizen-sama."

Grimmjow bristles and his tail cracks in the air and the smile on Aizen’s lips only grows wider.

"Perhaps so…"

His voice is light, humorous, and a similarly playful smile teases his lips; but as the gap between them closes the warmth in his eyes seems to dim and the chill of his reiatsu penetrates Grimmjow’s bones. It feels like depravity and deceit, and it's the last warning he needs before his fight or flight response swings favourably towards _fight._

He lunges—deadly canines opening in a silent roar—and far more easily than he anticipated his jaw snaps around Aizen’s forearm. Except, instead of crunching bone and the familiar sticky, iron-tang of blood oozing over his gums, his fangs clash against what feels like Sekkiseki stone and the impact makes his skull vibrate. He looks up and finds Aizen’s expression hasn’t so much as flickered; he regards the arm trapped in Grimmjow’s muzzle with cool indifference, as if the grind of razor-sharp teeth against his skin is as slight as a feather’s tickle, before his gaze patiently meets with Grimmjow’s, the corner of his lips ticking in vague amusement.

And then his reiatsu sky-rockets. Grimmjow’s body immediately shudders and his muscle seize as wave after wave of crushing power beats down on his skull until his jaw slackens and his eyelids begin to droop under the onslaught.

Aizen’s other hand grasps him by the scruff of the neck—fingers burrowing deep into his fur and pinching at muscle—and he falls limp.

“I like your spirit.”

He hits the sand, body twitching and jerking at random—trying to regain control over his uncooperative limbs while barely able to breath with the oppressing reiatsu crushing his chest—until suddenly it lifts and the cry that escapes his throat is both wounded and relieved.

Aizen responds with a patronizing chuckle, stroking the fur around his neck like he’s some kind of domesticated pet. The sleeve of his cloak dangles in shreds above Grimmjow’s head, the skin beneath smooth and unblemished, a mockery of his challenge, and in his hand that small, mysterious object hums to life again.

Where there was a flicker of dread before, now unbridled fear curdles through Grimmjow’s gut—instinct screaming at him to move, fight, _flea!_ and reason already declaring his efforts futile. 

The pressure grows suffocating, grinds him further into the sand, and he thrashes with the little energy he has left, tail whipping blindly as he’s overcome by startling white. Fractures rupture through his armor and he gasps, breathless, spine curling in agony, as a forgein reishi seeps through the cracks, infusing with the blood pounding in his veins, and he feels his bones begin to crack and contort.

Before the pain completely numbs his mind, Grimmjow summons up every last shred of his hate and frustration and lets it tear up his throat in one final, defiant roar; swearing with the air that leaves his lungs that if he lives he will find a way to kill this man.

**LAS NOCHES**

******

  
  


The Shinigami leave them with clothes and an order to test and train their news powers until they are called upon. 

Grimmjow is the first to manifest his Zanpakuto. The weight of the hilt and thrum of power feels _right_ in his hands and the name _Pantera_ slips from his lips in a whisper.

It’s in the steel of the blade where he sees his reflection for the first time and he blinks, surprised, at the sight of so much _blue._ In his hair and his eyes and even tinged with green in the markings below them.

_‘Such a lovely colour.’_

A shudder flutters down his spine at the ghostly memory of a hand cupping his chin—a thumb sliding over ridges of bone on his cheek—and he quickly sheaths his sword.

Months slip by waiting for the signal from their _master._

They cross dunes and scale rock formations on faster, lighter feet—learn to stabilize reishi in the air and walk upon it undetected—and strike down countless opponents with more precision and ease than the last. 

The corpses he no longer needs to consume now serve as a warning to the other Menos dwelling in the area.

Around him the desert remains unchanged, unaffected by the powerful new beings that prowl its sands and Grimmjow, having never experienced a life that wasn't dominated by insatiable hunger, suddenly finds himself with more time on his hands than he knows what to do with.

At first it’s liberating. Gone are the shackles that bound him to the timeless kill-or-be-killed system, the threat of regression constantly nipping at his heels disappearing alongside; no need to sleep with one eye open anymore. He lets himself unwind a little. Stops to admire the red in Edrad’s hair and Yylfordt’s eyes and the nimble work of Shawlong’s fingers as he secures a thread around the tip of his skinny braid.

But soon the novelty begins to wear thin and he grows restless, impatient; disappointed by every flutter of reiatsu that doesn’t lead him back to Aizen. 

He grasps fistfuls of coarse sand and watches the grains trickle in silvery streams from between the cracks in his fingers. 

_Is this what he wanted?_

The obvious answer is yes but the shortcut that brought him here catapulted him way ahead of all the nearby competition and, though his companions may commend his formidability, there’s still miles of progress and perfectioning yet to be made. 

The kills come too easily for anything to be gained from it and he’s left sitting at the top of the dogpile, sharpening his blade under the moonlight and losing hours staring aimlessly into the distance, searching for shadows on the horizon.

He needs someone to take away the itch brewing under his skin. He needs _purpose._

“Grimmjow.”

A terse voice cuts across the silence and his eyes flicker to Shawlong and then beyond him where, far in the distance, there is quite clearly some kind of disruption. He quickly pushes himself to his feet, wiping his hands clean on his hakama, and squints at what appears to be a mushroom cloud of sand and dust settling in the sky miles away.

From where they are standing it may appear miniscule and unimposing but when the shockwave hits minutes later Grimmjow has no need to question who is at the center of the explosion.

A blast of distinctive reiatsu washes over him, ruffling through his hair and sweeping the sands into his eyes, and a haunting trickle of dread tingles around the hole in his abdomen like a cold sweat as he feels hundreds of souls disappear in a blip.

“I guess that’s the signal,” Edrad says once the air settles.

Grimmjow lowers his arm, eyebrows pinched as he refocuses his gaze on the cloud staining the distant skyline.

“Shall we go?” Di-Roy asks, looking to him for instruction. Grimmjow says nothing. He never commands them to do anything, but the soft sounds of swishing fabric and footsteps shifting the sand trails behind him nonetheless as he slides his hands inside his pockets and starts walking.

Even after swearing allegiance to the Shinigami and parading about in the white uniforms he donned them with; Grimmjow knows their true loyalties still lie with him. Wherever he goes, they follow.

They are his in a way that Aizen will never own.

It takes three days to cross the sands. Traces of reiatsu linger in the air, guiding them onwards after the dust cloud eventually disperses, and though the scenery doesn’t change an awful lot Grimmjow can tell he has never travelled this area before.

On the second day, Yylfordt steps up beside him. “We’re heading towards Las Noches.” 

His face is stern when Grimmjow flicks his eyes to him. The name isn’t unknown to any of them. _Las Noches._ An ancient castle rumoured to be ruled over by a Vasto Lorde far older and more ruthless than any other, with an army of Menos at his back. 

“You certain?” He asks and Yylfordt nods.

“Yes.”

Years ago if he had stumbled into such a territory he would have wisely retreated. Now, he quickens his pace, burying his anticipation with a disinterested hum. 

What awaits him at the end of their journey however is not a castle, barely even the ruins of one, and there’s little to differentiate between the old and recently inflicted damage. 

The surrounding walls, weather-worn and crumbling, reach no higher than Grimmjow’s waist, and sand sweeps inside through the decimated entrance, burying debris and piling in drifts along collapsed columns. 

An eerie quiet clings to the air like the hush after a great battle and Grimmjow’s eyes briefly study the scars left behind; scorched black ash and craters litter the ground collecting sand and rubble and—upon closer inspection—fragments of bone.

Directly ahead an aged throne sits overlooking the court—vacant and seemingly open for claim if it were not for a thick blanket of familiar reiatsu saturating the elevated stone it rests upon. It seeps over his skin as he approaches, shrouding him like an invisible fog, until he feels a chill in his bones and a sharp tug at his core. 

It’s so dense he almost doesn’t recognise the other threads of reiatsu, tightly drawn and distinctively Hollow.

He counts at least two dozen figures spread out near the staircase that ascends to the throne, most alone, some clustered in small groups; turning one by one as they sense the arrival of newcomers.

Grimmjow quickly deduces several among them as potential threats and pairs faces to their reiatsu, flashing his own in a show of intimidation that has varying results. While some shrink away, others regard him with scorn. 

One in particular—an old man with white hair and a matching mustache—fixes him with a disparaging look and actually _titters,_ and Grimmjow’s fingers itch for the hilt of his Zanpakuto.

 _This is the old king,_ he realises.

Barragan.

_No longer on his throne._

And there’s only one who could have usurped him. 

From nowhere Grimmjow feels a rush of adrenaline—struck with certainty that blood will be spilled in this pitiable excuse of a fortress before any words are exchanged. 

The prospect leaves him almost dizzy—grappling with his natural instinct—and Pantera thrums at his side, eager to lead the assault.

He sees Barragan’s jaw tick irritably, and beneath the bone crown fashioned across his forehead his thick eyebrows fold together, small eyes narrowing dangerously, and a haughty expression crosses his scarred face which seems to say, _don’t try it, boy._

The silence finally breaks when a gleeful cackle rings out from the shadows.

“Well well well! Isn’t this a surprise!” 

Grimmjow doesn’t immediately seek out the speaker, hesitant to divide his attention from the larger threat in front of him, but as light footsteps casually weave their way into his peripheral, his eyes instantly dart to size up the new foe.

He finds a slender, pink-haired man wearing a dishonest smile and glasses made of white bone framing sharp eyes that stare past Grimmjow’s left shoulder to another behind him.

“Szayel.” Yylfordt says, his expression dark. He meets Grimmjow’s quizzical gaze for a split second before he flicks his attention back to Pinky without giving anything away.

Not that he has to. Pinky—Szayel or whoever—throws his arms out in a welcoming gesture, though his eyes remain cool and distant. “I didn’t expect to see you again, brother.”

Grimmjow immediately whips his head back to Yylfordt.

“ _Brother?”_ Di-roy questions on everyone’s behalf.

“You know these pests, Grantz?” Baraggan inquires in a deep, authoritative voice and Szayel’s smirk turns cruel.

“Only one of them.” 

A growl rumbles in Grimmjow’s chest and he flares his reiatsu. Szayel falters, momentarily, and backs up a step or two, a healthy level of caution evident in his eyes as he rakes them over Grimmjow’s figure in a dissective manner.

“Hmm? I take it _you’re_ the leader here?” He tilts his head and hums again. “Interesting.”

One of the Arrancars flanking Barragan snorts and leers at Grimmjow with golden eyes. “Interesting? Hardly. When the Shinigami spoke of an army I expected better than the dregs that are showing up.” He looks around arrogantly as though daring anyone to challenge his insult and smirking when nobody does.

“And what about the Hollow King’s army?” Grimmjow drawls, dry amusement slipping into his tone when the young Arrancar twitches irritably. “I heard this place was a fortress— _hundreds_ of Menos guarding the walls—” he feels his lip curling at the corner, and he runs his tongue over his exposed canine “—don’t see any kings or armies here. Or any walls for that matter.”

Barragan slowly unfolds his arms and leans forward.

“Do you know who you are speaking to, boy?” 

An unmistakable threat lingers in the silence that follows and it seems as though the whole court holds its breath. Grimmjow does not doubt for a moment that his next words, if chosen unwisely, will lead to bloodshed that probably won’t bode well in his favour. 

However, he has also never been one to take such blatant disrespect with his belly exposed and hesitancy now will only be seized upon later by the vultures laying in wait.

He gestures idly to the destruction laid bare around them. 

“By the looks of it: a _loser_ —”

His throat suddenly clenches and a foul taste dries on his tongue like ash. 

In all his years Grimmjow has never known a reiatsu to have such a pungent odour—ripe decay; thick enough to choke on. He wonders, in the split second after when his knees shudder, just how much death is needed to permanently stain your reiryoku.

More than he has seen in his lifetime.

It spreads like rot, feels like it’s corroding him from the inside out, and he’s struck—panic bulging in his eyes—with an irrefutable certainty that whatever is left of him by the time this is over will linger on within this stench.

“That’s enough.”

The pressure instantly shatters, the invasive reiatsu disappearing with a blip, suppressed by a far greater power; one that steals the air from Grimmjow’s lungs.

Pain slices down the side of his neck as he desperately whips his head towards the direction of the owner—gaze climbing a long, bold shadow cast over the great staircase, up towards where the moon hangs in the inky sky above the throne. There, with the crown of his head illuminated under its pale glow, stands the man Grimmjow came here for.

A year, longer in fact, has passed—hard to tell in a world where a month can feel like a minute and minute like an eternity—and yet now it seems like only yesterday since he felt the weight of Aizen’s spiritual pressure bruising his skull and his hand gently brushing against his cheek.

His lips part, oxygen returns to his brain, and he shivers with a chill that ripples down his spine—finds himself moving forward, like a bug drawn to light, unfazed by all those around him. He’s pretty sure none of them are paying him any attention anymore, not with Aizen’s imposing presence bearing down—admiring his creations, his _disciples—_ from high on his platform.

“It’s been a long time.”

His voice is the same as Grimmjow remembers it, gentle and unwavering; carefully crafted just like the smile adorning his lips. Grimmjow knows better than to trust any of it. Knows of the danger that lurks behind this mild-mannered persona. 

And yet. When Aizen’s eyes lock with his, Grimmjow’s thoughts quieten and the constant restlessness eating away at him stills. In that moment, he feels oddly content, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be; secluded in Aizen’s gaze.

“Welcome to Las Noches.”

**ESPADA**

*******

Every time Aizen returns, Las Noches grows, as does its population.

Most are scouted, arriving cautious and sceptical of the tales they've heard; those more reluctant are defeated in combat and hauled back to the fortress against their will.

None resist once they come face-to-face with the Shinigami who usurped the Hollow King Barragan. They pledge their loyalty and sink willingly to their knees; so unlike how Grimmjow was slammed and restrained against the sand—howling retribution as his mask splintered.

However, over time, unrest inevitably erupts and Las Noches tilts on the brink of civil war. With over fifty Arrancar now residing within the walls, the Espada, made up of the once-feared natural-born Arrancar, are outnumbered and losing respect among the Numeros—unable to control or resolve even the most petty disputes—and there is plenty of blood spilled across the sands before their master returns once again to retain order.

The latest recruits are weak, mostly Gillian or recently turned Aduchas, but Aizen welcomes them as though they are dear to him—important to his cause. He rolls out the formalities in a slow, self-indulgent way, a polished smile warming his lips as he blatantly ignores the tension breeding in the room. Behind him, Tosen stands in devout silence—disdain fused within his spiritual pressure—probing for the first hint of provocation. 

Grimmjow listens with one ear—confident he’s not missing anything important—and lets his eyes wander, taking in the displeased faces of his so-called brothers and sisters. Barragan simmers in frustration off to one side—impatience etched into the lines wrinkling his face—and those unfortunate enough to be standing closest discreetly begin to inch away. 

“—plans are moving exactly as anticipated and I expect our numbers to double within a year.” Movement draws his attention back to Aizen and he watches him stroll leisurely to the new throne installed at the head of the court and lower himself into it. “Within two, I will be here to lead our first strike against the Seireitei.” 

The announcement is met with a disagreeable murmur spreading through the crowd; Grimmjow catches Shawlong’s eyes and they share a brief knowing look. With the way Las Noches currently stands two more years with twice the bodies spells only disaster without Aizen’s power to subdue them; his army will tear itself before they have the chance to fight the Shinigami.

“I ask for your continued patience and support until then.”

Gin poorly stifles a chuckle behind his long sleeve and the Espada shuffle uneasily.

“With that aside. I am aware that there have been some queries about my ambition, during my absence.”

Grimmjow nearly snorts. _Queries._ He’s just belittling Barragan now.

“It is important that we remain unified.” Aizen crosses one leg over the other in a slow, almost hypnotizing way, and his long fingers thread together in his lap. “That is why I believe, in order to retain the peace, the chain of command is in need of restructuring.”

Grimmjow is far from the only one to stir at that: the mood in the room quickly swings in the opposite direction, and even Barragan’s expression holds something that could be described as approval. Aizen smiles at the favourable reception. 

“From now on, the ten among you who I deem the strongest will hold the title of Espada. They are to carry out my orders while I am not present in Las Noches. In addition, each of the Espada will have the option to choose up to six others to serve directly under them as their Fraccion to enforce my rule.”

Grimmjow’s pulse quickens, feeling an excitement he hasn’t felt since he arrived here—since Aizen’s reiatsu trembled over the sands—and he stares almost greedily ahead. Being an Espada would not only mean recognition of his power, but also opportunity—a ladder for him to climb. 

A commotion stirs somewhere down at the front, ripping him from his thoughts, and one of the natural-borns steps forward to splutter his disapproval.

“Aizen-sama, I must object!”

Instead of eviscerating him on the spot, Aizen tilts his head, considering, and then gestures for him to speak. The man seems to falter, suddenly very aware he’s placed himself deep in the spotlight, and has to clear his throat twice before he finds his voice again.

“Aizen-sama,” he begins respectfully, straightening his back, “I did not require your power to remove my mask but I chose to follow you anyway, as did many others. We have proven ourselves amongst the most loyal, and our experience—”

“Be silent!” Barragan suddenly roars, his spiritual pressure flickering as he takes a menacing step forward. “I will not be lectured of experience by a mere child like you!”

“You—! We are the original Arrancar!” The man shouts, his black moustache twisting with scowl on his face. “We wielded our Zanpakuto and mastered our abilities long before—”

“And your _abilities_ have proven insufficient!” Barragan interrupts again and crosses his arms over his broad chest with an air of finality. From where he’s stood Grimmjow can’t feel it but the way the man balks and takes a shaky step backwards suggests that Barragan is pressuring him with his spiritual power. Satisfied with the results, he scoffs and his next words are spoken to Aizen. “I should not be expected to obey anyone weaker than myself.”

From behind his glasses, Aizen’s eyes seem to darken, though his voice remains light and vacantly amused. “Nor would I expect you to.” 

“Aizen-sama…” The man glances between the two warily. 

“Do you doubt yourself, Dordoni Alessandro?” Aizen asks, gaze breaking away from Barragan. “If your strength is equal to your loyalty then you have nothing to be concerned about.”

“But—! How can you entrust leadership to one who made their former underlings fight each other for their amuse—”

“My decision has already been made.” There’s a flash of warning in his tone and in the atmosphere and Dordoni falls silent. Aizen draws it out a moment longer, letting the threat creep into the air like a cold mist, and Grimmjow feels the hairs on his forearms stand on end as he addresses the whole room. “Do not mistake me; positions in the Espada are not fixed. Those who abuse their command and disrupt my plans will be demoted. 

“Even if you are not selected now that does not mean you won’t be in future. Spend your time improving your strength and you may find yourself on the front lines beside me when the invasions begin.”

Grimmjow feels the intrigue rise, not all of it good, and knows that there will be plenty of dirty tricks carried out in shadows if it means an opportunity to wield authority. Hollows are naturally competitive, they have to be to survive in this world, and some are more cunning than others. Already there are several intense glares thrown around, rivalries heating up in mere seconds. 

To no one's surprise—and everyone's displeasure—Barragan is given the top-spot. _Primera_. Grimmjow watches with distaste in his mouth as his closest followers—now his Fraccion—applaud the decision.

He’s followed, unexpectedly, by Dordoni and three other natural-borns, then Szayel and a freak with tube for a head.

By the time the last two spots are rattled off to a couple of nobodies who he is sure he could flatten in his sleep, Grimmjow’s face has settled into a deep frown.

“That’s bullshit,” Di-Roy grumbles beside him. “You should be up there.”

“I agree,” Shawlong says, with similar mutters coming from Edrad, Ylfordt and Nakeem.

Grimmjow says nothing; his glare burns into Aizen’s back as he dismisses them, a lump building in his throat. He feels them staring at him and it makes his skin itch. Makes him want to break something. His fingers curl into fists by his side and he turns abruptly, pushing his way out of the hall with no consideration for those in his way. They follow wordlessly.

They don’t make it far before Grimmjow quickly senses another keeping pace close behind and he comes to a quick halt, shoulders tense, takes a deep controlled breath, and turns to confront their unwelcome shadow with a glare that could kill a small Hollow on the spot.

His eyes land on the familiar--smug and dislikeable--face of Aizen’s scientist and Yylfordt’s brother, Szayelaporro Grantz. The newly appointed Sexta.

 _Absolutely fucking not,_ Grimmjow thinks but before he can open his mouth and let loose a single profanity, Yylfordt—without a drop of familial love—snaps, “what do you want? Are you here to gloat?”

Szayel tips his head innocently. “Of course not, brother. I have no quarrel with you.” His eyes flicker to Grimmjow. “How _ever..._ I do bring words of caution.”

“Fuck off,” Grimmjow spits.

Szayel chortles. “How unkind. I came with good intentions.”

“No such thing here.” 

“Of course there is, now more than ever.” He makes a backwards gesture in the direction they just came from and the bustle of movement from the other Arrancar. “It’s my duty as one of Espada to maintain peace and I feel it’s best to tackle issues at the root before they spread and get out of control.”

Grimmjow sneers. “Thoughtful of you. I’m sure a former lackey of Barragan has only my best interests at heart.” 

Szayel’s smile falters slightly; his amber eyes falling hard and lifeless before he closes them, huffing a small laugh and adjusting the white glasses perched over his nose. “Be careful who you insult,” he says in a voice deeper than a moment ago. “There’s a hierarchy in motion now and some who will do anything to defend their position.”

“And some who will do anything to take one of their positions as their own,” Grimmjow retorts without missing a beat. He drags his eyes over Szayel’s slim figure in a condescending manner, lifting his chin to stare down his nose. “‘ _Sexta’_ has a nice ring to it.”

Strangely, Szayel’s expression lights up with amusement and intrigue and a crooked grin spreads across his face.

“Really? _Anything?_ ” He says, his eyes sparkling. “Now that... certainly would be interesting…”

Something about his voice makes Grimmjow pause, reminds him of their first meeting and the momentary curiosity and delight that danced across his expression; like he knew something Grimmjow didn’t. 

An unpleasant feeling settles just below his Hollow hole and for the first time since acquiring this body he feels a little exposed, self-conscious; finds himself wishing his jacket covered more.

Szayel, blinking himself out of his captivated state, raises an eyebrow and leers. “Tell me if you feel the same in a year's time,” he says cryptically, twirling a stand of pink hair around his finger, and then adds, “if you survive that long, of course.”

“I’ll survive,” Grimmjow says, pushing aside his discomfort and taking a threatening step towards him, “don't you worry.” He’s already survived this long, there’s no fucking up now.

”You have my full support,” Szayel says, voice heavy with sarcasm, “but if you should fail—” he shrugs and turns away, “—just know, I will be there to collect whatever is left of you from the sand. Even if it’s just your bones.”

He leaves with a delicate flick of his wrist and for the rest of the day all Grimmjow can think about is the satisfying crack it would have made had he reached out and snapped it. 

His thoughts must reflect on his face because even Shawlong and the others—sensing his mood like poison in the atmosphere—eventually back off and give him a wide berth. They support him, irrefutably, but they also know their words only mean so much to him and there are still many times when distance works in all their favour.

They’ll be waiting. When he’s done. When he’s found an appropriate target to take the full brunt of his fury. Normally he would skip off outside the walls and use his bare hands to obliterate a few Menos—return a few hours later licking blood from his knuckles—but punching down weaklings when there are already so many tempting targets scattered all around him isn’t enough to satisfy him this time.

It’s Aizen he wants to slam his fists into. Wants to get right up in his lordly face where he has nowhere else to look and scream. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, no matter where he wanders, Aizen remains far from his sight. Between meetings with the new Espada and ventures out into the desert, he seems to be constantly moving around, impossible to pin down within the expanding fortress. 

It takes three days before his feet randomly lead him to Aizen. A part of him had given up believing he would find him before he returned to the Seireitei and it takes him by surprise when he turns from one indistinguishable corridor into another and there he is; stood in a small circle with Tosen and Gin, having a merry little chat.

They continue talking, unaware or simply uncaring of his arrival, and he watches blankly for a moment, tongue peeping out to wet his dry lips, before his eyes narrow dangerously. He doesn’t bother to try and conceal his presence or his indignation as he approaches them.

“What do you want Grimmjow?” Tosen barks seconds later. Grimmjow ignores him, eyes fixed on Aizen. 

“I want a word.”

“You have no right to make such demands,” Tosen says with ice in his voice and Grimmjow finally looks at him, pouring all his scorn and contempt for the man into a single venomous glare.

If the blind fucker can’t feel it then he must be missing more senses than just his sight. 

An ugly look crosses Tosen’s face, animosity equal to Grimmjow’s own souring his reiatsu and his hand twitches as though he’s considering drawing his sword.

Aizen swiftly interrupts him.

“No, Kaname. It’s fine.”

Tosen hesitates, the decision clearly disagreeing with him, but he steps down and leaves with Gin after a final dismissive wave from Aizen’s hand. Grimmjow waits until they’re out of sight.

“Is there something troubling you, Grimmjow?” Aizen asks, somehow sounding both sarcastic and genuinely concerned at the same time.

Grimmjow’s glare deepens. “Spare me that shit. You know damn well what I’m here for.”

Aizen feigns ignorance for a little longer, but then he sighs. “I suppose you are displeased with my selection of the Espada?”

“Your selection consists of freaks and natural-born has-beens—” 

“All whom I have carefully considered and deemed more powerful than you.” The sudden coldness in Aizen’s voice pierces him like a shard of ice, right down the spine, and the muscles in his legs spasm. “You have become used to being the strongest and that familiarity is now hindering you--”

“—You’re wrong—” he hesitates, unsure if the glint that flickers across Aizen’s eyes is amusement or wrath. “—I know my own strength— _my limits_.” He’s been involved in enough scraps, and witnessed dozens more, since arriving in Las Noches to understand there’s a new level of competition to contend with. “You haven’t spent enough time here—”

“I do not need to,” Aizen cuts him off quickly. “You forget Grimmjow, I am the one who manipulated the Hogyoku and infused it with your reishi. I created you. I know you better than you think.”

 _Better than you know yourself_ , is what Grimmjow hears and for a terrifying moment, he believes it.

“So what?” He says eventually, swallowing the build-up of saliva in his mouth, “is that it? You’ve already decided my worth? Am I just here to kiss your ass and serve your fucking tea?”

“That’s not what I said.” His words come out with a sigh, bored and impatient. “While I believe you still have plenty of room for growth, I have doubts about your dependability. About whether your ambitions align with mine.”

Grimjow shakes his head. “That’s _bull—”_

“You are inexperienced,” Aizen says bluntly, “in combat and leadership—”

“I’ve been _leading_ for years.”

“Have you?” Aizen queries, pinning him with a serious look. “Or have you simply tolerated others following you?”

The question feels like a physical force, knocking the air from his lungs and leaving his jaw to hang loose. 

“I—”

“You accept their subordination but you do not wield it,” Aizen continues, undeterred, and a wry smile pulls at his lips. “Have you ever commanded them to do anything?” Grimmjow swallows, eyes dropping momentarily to the floor as he performs a quick search though his memories and comes up empty. Yelling at Di-Roy to ‘ _shut the fuck up’_ probably doesn’t count as a command from Aizen’s perspective. “Your outward appearance may have altered but at your core you’re still driven by your Hollow instinct.” 

He’s suddenly very close and Grimmjow fights the urge to take a step back as Aizen’s hand rises to settle on his shoulder—squeezing in an almost comforting manner.

“Until you can curb that instinct and place your strength in the greater goal, you are not ready for the responsibility that comes with being an Espada.”

The gesture wields no harmful intent but, even as it slips away, disinterested, the skin beneath his jacket burns alongside his wounded pride.

“You're wrong,” Grimmjow repeats, voice rough around the indignation bulging in his throat.

Aizen comes to a halt, turning halfway to regard him with an unreadable look that lasts no more than a few seconds before he shows him his back again. 

“Prove that to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> This idea just popped up and punched me in the face a few months ago and hasn't let me sleep since. Took a lot longer than I thought it would but I was determined to get this fic rolling before the year ended.
> 
> This is my first attempt at A/B/O and I haven't actually read a great deal of it before so err... be kind please. I know this trope can be a bit of an iffy one and I've tried not to stumble into any offensive stereotypes, but if you think any warnings might be needed in the tags then I'm open to that.
> 
> Anyway, please leave a review if you liked it :)


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